Freak

by Jennifer Hillier

  “Come in, we’ll talk inside.” He opened the door wider, and she stepped into the room. A second later, her phone rang.

  She held up a finger and took the call. “Hi, Lynne.”

  The door closed behind her.

  “Hi. Everything okay?” The voice of Estelle’s assistant floated through the phone.

  Not wanting to be rude in front of a client, Alice said, “Yes, I got here just fine. How’s everything on your end?” This was code for confirming that payment had been received.

  “Everything’s clear over here. Payment was received via PayPal an hour ago. You’re booked for two hours. Have fun and be safe.”

  “Okay then.” Alice disconnected the call. It still seemed a bit weird—this was not her typical client. He was way too young and she was way too expensive.

  But then again, what the hell did she care? He’d paid, he looked totally harmless, and he was smiling at her hopefully. And she had to admit, grudgingly, that his smile was rather sweet.

  “Everything check out?” he asked. “I paid earlier, if that’s what the call was about.”

  “Everything’s good.” She smiled. “What’s your name?”

  “Jeremiah,” he said.

  She put her purse down on the dresser. “Let’s get started then, Jeremiah.” She stepped closer to him. Suddenly she heard a mewling sound, and noticed there was a pet carrier in the corner of the room. Alice frowned. “You brought your cat?” She was allergic to cats.

  He smiled impishly and sat down on the bed. “Um, I know I requested a Girlfriend Experience, but . . . I’ve always wanted to try something a little different. I’m not sure I’m into all the cuddling, you know?”

  Thank God. Neither was she. “Not a problem,” Alice said. She sat beside him on the bed. “What did you have in mind, then?”

  He reached into a plastic bag sitting beside the bed and pulled out a pair of silk scarves. Blushing slightly, he said, “I thought maybe . . . I thought maybe we could do something with these scarves. I’ve got some . . . bondage fantasies.”

  She laughed and took one of the scarves from him. “Sweetie, this isn’t kinky. You want kinky, I can give you kinky. Too bad you didn’t request it. I have a whole suitcase full of gear I could have brought.” She patted the empty space on the bed between them. “Come closer and tell me exactly what you want. Don’t be shy.”

  “It’s kind of embarrassing, and I don’t know if you’ll want to . . .”

  She put a hand on his arm and dropped her voice to a throaty purr. “Baby, I’ve heard everything you can imagine. You paid good money for me to be here, right? Might as well make the most of it.” She leaned forward. “Here’s a not-so-secret secret, Jeremiah. I’m a sure thing. All you have to do is tell me what you want.”

  He smiled. “Okay.”

  Moments later, she was naked from the waist down, and her arms were up over her head and secured to the bedposts, one on each side.

  He hovered over her, straddling her, his eyes feasting on her naked breasts. One hand cupped her tentatively, a finger caressing her nipple, which hardened in response. It didn’t feel good and it didn’t feel bad. It just was what it was: work.

  He leaned forward and she braced herself for his kiss. She didn’t particularly like kissing—another reason she wasn’t crazy about GFEs, too much kissing and not enough fucking—but she readied herself anyway, smiling up at him and parting her lips.

  He stopped an inch short of her face. His breath smelled like Twizzlers and old pizza. “Hang on,” he said. “I’ve gotta turn the TV on. There’s something I want to watch while I do this.”

  “Whatever gets you going, honey,” Alice said.

  He reached for the remote control and flipped through the channels, turning up the volume. Then he pulled off his shoes and socks. Turning back to her, he said, “The show starts in a few minutes. So, you said to tell you what it is I want.”

  “What do you want?” she said, looking up at him with her best wide-eyed expression. The faster she got him hard, the sooner she’d be home in her pajamas watching The Real Housewives of Orange County. “Tell me all about it, baby.”

  “Open your mouth.”

  She smiled and did as she was instructed. Before she knew what was coming, he’d stuffed his sock in it. Then he punched her in the face.

  Alice felt her nose break. The pain was sudden and intense. She screamed, but the sounds were muffled at best.

  “I’m gonna do things a little differently tonight, Alessandra,” he said, and punched her again. “Because I gotta speed things up. I gotta get things moving. You understand, don’t you?”

  Of course she didn’t. Her face was on fire, and she could feel tears leaking down her temples. She looked up at him, right into his eyes, which were shining with glee, and realized at that moment that he was totally, positively, absolutely crazy.

  She tried twisting to get away from him, but there was nothing she could do. Her arms were tied to the bed. She tried screaming, but the scratchy cotton of his sock in her mouth only gagged her. The mewling coming from the corner of the room grew louder, and Alice thought now that it didn’t sound like a cat at all.

  He hit her again and everything went dark.

  chapter 20

  THE PULSE’S FEATURE with Abby Maddox was scheduled to start in two minutes. The nightly cable news show, which had been struggling with ratings for the past year, had won the interview battle over the notorious inmate. It was a huge score. The show had wasted no time in sending that cheesy blond journalist Bernadette Barkley down to Rosedale, and while the interview wouldn’t be airing live—it had been taped much earlier in the day—it was about as current as it would get.

  “Like she’s not all over the news enough already since her murder charge,” Morris said, frowning at the television. “Do we have to watch this garbage?”

  “Can you make tea?” Sheila kept her voice light and offered her fiancé a smile. “I’d love some tea.”

  Morris huffed out of the room and Sheila remained still on the sofa, one ear cocked toward the kitchen. A moment later she heard the water steaming in the kettle. Okay, good. Giving him something to do ensured his head wouldn’t be exploding in the next five minutes. Maybe he’d even go downstairs to the den to watch something else, but she knew better.

  Sheila turned the volume up on the television, not realizing she was chewing on her lower lip until it began to throb. The show’s introduction and teaser told viewers what was to come. They were calling this episode “Up Close and Personal with Abby Maddox.” Unbelievable. The woman practically had her own reality show.

  Morris was back with two steaming mugs. Sheila took hers gratefully and gave it a tentative sip. Earl Grey, one teaspoon of honey, just the way she liked it. She murmured a thank-you to Morris and smiled. He didn’t smile back.

  Bernadette Barkley’s steady cadence voiced over a biography of Abby that lasted about five minutes. She started by summarizing the inmate’s relationship with Seattle’s notorious Tell-Tale Heart Killer. Ethan Wolfe’s face appeared on the screen then, and Sheila found herself holding her breath. It wasn’t one of the photos that had been playing on endless rotation all over the news lately. In this picture, Ethan was outside the psychology building at PSSU, sitting on his vintage Triumph motorcycle. He was wearing jeans and a worn leather jacket, his short light brown hair looking almost blond under a rare patch of Seattle sunshine. He looked incredibly handsome, which is probably why the show had chosen to use this photo.

  Even after a year, it was difficult for Sheila to see the face of her ex-lover and kidnapper. She could feel Morris’s eyes burning a hole into the side of her cheek, checking for her reaction, and she was careful to keep her face neutral. Slowly, so he wouldn’t hear it, she let out a long breath of air.

  The screen then flashed to a photo of Jerry. Sheila had unfortunately seen this picture several times. Last year, only a day after the assault, a reporter who’d disguised himself as an orderly ha
d snapped a picture of the private investigator asleep in his hospital bed with his throat bandaged.

  That got a grunt out of Morris. “He hates that picture. Figures they’d use it.”

  “Makes for good TV,” Sheila said ruefully.

  “On the run for seven weeks after her lover, Ethan Wolfe, was discovered to be the Tell-Tale Heart Killer,” Barkley was narrating in a sweet and almost salacious voice, “Abby Maddox was captured and charged with the assault of retired police detective Jerry Isaac. She’s been incarcerated at Rosedale Penitentiary just outside Gig Harbor, Washington, for the past year, having received a maximum sentence of nine years for the first-degree assault of a retired police officer. But in a huge turn of events, the King County prosecuting attorney formally charged Maddox last week with the murder of Puget Sound State University student and swimming star Diana St. Clair, who allegedly had an affair with Maddox’s lover, Ethan Wolfe, while all three were students at the university. The highly anticipated trial was set to begin a month from now.”

  A picture of the swimmer flashed on the screen. They had chosen to use the one of Diana in her swimsuit, looking tanned and lean, holding up a gold medal from her last college championship win.

  Barkley’s bright green eyes were sparkling. “But in yet another astounding turn of events, The Pulse has learned that another series of murders is happening in Seattle right now. So far there are three victims, and it’s possible that Abby Maddox may have information on the killer. She is currently cooperating with Seattle police and the King County prosecuting attorney’s office to help find Seattle’s newest serial killer from inside her prison cell. Sources tell The Pulse that should an arrest be made, Abby Maddox will be immune from prosecution for her alleged involvement in the Diana St. Clair murder.”

  Hearing it like this—the whole story summarized in a matter of breaths—made Sheila feel dizzy. “Jerry told me the police weren’t going to tell the media they had a serial killer on their hands,” she said, frowning. “He said they were planning to wait until they had concrete proof all the murders were related.”

  “The show obviously has sources inside.” Morris’s voice was flat, and Sheila risked a glance at him. He was staring at the TV with a granite jaw. “Doesn’t matter how they know; the cat’s out of the bag now. It’s going to be chaos.”

  The screen changed to show Abby Maddox in an interview room at Rosedale. She was dressed in her usual prison attire, but the show had obviously provided her with a makeup artist, and the inmate looked more stunning than ever. Abby made Bernadette Barkley, seated across from her at the cold metal table, seem old and garish, even though the blond TV personality couldn’t have been much older than thirty-five.

  Barkley began the interview. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Abby. How have you been?”

  Abby smiled. “I’m in prison. I’ve been better.”

  “Ever since your arrest last year, the public has been fascinated by you. Are you aware of the media attention surrounding you?”

  Another smile. “I’ve seen myself on the news a few times, yes. I have a TV in my cell.”

  “Tell us a little bit about life in here.”

  Abby shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Monday through Friday, I tutor inmates in English and math to help them get their GEDs, and on weekends I read books and write in my journal.”

  “You have a degree in mathematics from Puget Sound State University, is that right?”

  “I do, yes. Before my arrest, I was only a few courses shy of receiving my master’s.”

  “Can we discuss how you met Ethan Wolfe?”

  Abby tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and on cue, the camera zoomed in closer to her face. Her blue-violet eyes were soft and sad. “I was sixteen, living in a group home at the time. We met in high school, in history class. He was by far the smartest kid, almost genius smart. It was . . .” She smiled at the memory and shook her head. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

  “You never knew your parents?”

  “I don’t remember my mother at all. She left when I was two. My father drank himself to death when I was seven. I grew up in foster homes and group homes. Ethan . . . Ethan was the only real family I ever had.”

  “Eight years together, that’s a long time,” Barkley said, her voice softening. “You must have been deeply in love with him.”

  “He was the love of my life,” Abby said simply, and Sheila knew she was telling the truth. “My soul mate.”

  That got another grunt out of Morris.

  “You never knew that he was a murderer?” Barkley said.

  The inmate’s eyes hardened. “Everybody asks me that, and I’ll tell you what I told them: Of course I didn’t know. How could I know? He hid it from everyone, especially me. Even now, I can’t . . .” Abby closed her eyes, and the camera zoomed in closer still. A single tear fell from her lashes and made its way down her cheek. The effect was quite dramatic. “I can’t reconcile the Ethan I knew with the Ethan I’ve seen in the news. I never knew him that way.”

  “Bullshit,” Morris spat, and Sheila put a hand over his arm.

  “You met with Dr. Sheila Tao yesterday, his victim, who was also his professor at PSSU. Can you talk about that?”

  Sheila held her breath.

  “I’d rather not. What she and I discussed is between us.”

  Sheila exhaled.

  “But I will say this,” Abby said, and Sheila stiffened again. “Despite the fact that she slept with my boyfriend for three months, she didn’t deserve what he did to her. Dr. Sheila Tao is a recovering sex addict, and she couldn’t help it. I feel no animosity toward Dr. Tao. In fact, I appreciate very much that she came to see me and that she cares how I feel.”

  There was a pause as the camera flashed to Bernadette Barkley’s expertly made-up face, which was showing equal amounts of ill-disguised shock and glee.

  Sheila’s mouth fell open. “Oh God,” she said, her voice faint. The room began to spin and her whole body started shaking. “Oh God, oh God, please tell me she didn’t just say that.”

  Morris looked equally stunned, but he recovered quickly. “Honey, it’s okay—”

  “It’s not okay!” Sheila shrieked, jumping up from the couch. Her cup of Earl Grey tea landed on the carpet, spilling dark brown liquid onto the cream-colored threads. “She just told the entire country that I’m a sex addict! Oh my God . . .” She burst into tears.

  Morris was up in a flash, his big arms around her torso. “Darlin’, just breathe,” he said, stroking her hair. “Just breathe for me, okay? In and out, there you go . . .”

  Trembling violently, Sheila buried her face in his chest. “I’m ruined,” she said, a sob escaping her. “Oh God, Morris, I’m ruined.”

  “Of course you’re not,” he said, his voice deep and soothing. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll get through this.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Sheila looked up into his face, desperation seeping into every bone in her body. “I’m going to lose my job. The dean only allowed me to return last year on the explicit understanding that nobody would find out about my addiction or the affair I had with Ethan. The university board isn’t going to allow a sex addict who sleeps with her students to teach there. I’m done, don’t you get it? I’m done.”

  “We’ll sue her.” Morris’s tone was firm. “We’ll sue Maddox, and we’ll sue the show. We’ll say it’s all lies.”

  “But it’s not lies.” The horror continued to spread through Sheila like a flesh-eating disease. Her sobs were so deep they hurt her chest. “It’s not lies, Morris. It’s all true. And even if it wasn’t, she said it. She said it on national fucking television, and it’s out there, and it doesn’t matter if I deny it. Everybody will think it, and that’s all it takes.”

  Her knees buckled, but Morris held her up. He led her back to the sofa and she slumped into it, wishing she were dead. A moment later, she began to feel numb, and knew vaguely that it was her brain’s response to the
terrible, awful, mortifying thing that had just happened.

  Because other than Morris, nothing mattered more to Sheila than her career. Without it, who was she? What good was she?

  On the television, Barkley’s sweet voice was still babbling.

  “Abby, take us back to that night at the police station in Seattle, when you were alone with retired police detective Jerry Isaac. What really happened?”

  Abby’s gaze flickered to the table and then back up again. “At first, Jerry seemed like a friend. He didn’t need to be at the police station, but he stayed with me because he knew I was scared. The police, they were so hostile, questioning me about Ethan’s whereabouts. Jerry was very helpful at first, very protective. But then he began to make me . . . uncomfortable. The way he looked at me . . .”

  “How did he look at you, Abby?”

  “It’s hard to explain.” The inmate was practically whispering. “I just suddenly became aware that we were alone in the break room, and he was talking about Ethan a lot, and I got nervous. He told me I wasn’t allowed to leave, and kept hinting that I was going to be arrested, that I’d be put in jail forever because the police thought I was involved in Ethan’s crimes. I felt cornered. I felt a desperate need to get out of there. It was like I couldn’t breathe.”

  “And then you assaulted him,” Barkley said, her voice oozing sympathy.

  “I really don’t remember anything that happened except that I panicked.”

  “You sliced his throat, you crazy, lying bitch!” Unable to take it anymore, Morris let go of Sheila and was up off the sofa again. Pacing like a caged bear, he pointed at the screen, the blush on his neck a dark red and climbing fast. “Why are they letting this psychopath have an audience? We all know she’s lying.”

  Sheila was still too numb to speak. Yes, Abby was completely lying about Jerry, but what did it matter? It was he said/she said, and the public would believe what they wanted to. Abby was a young, beautiful woman, and Jerry had been coming across as cold and surly in the media. Sheila had no doubt that the public would believe Abby, because hell, it was more fun that way.